LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 



-^:^^srr5U 



irtel?- 



;iielf ---^o ^^ 



MTEl) STATIIS OF AMERICA 



LETHE 



AND 



OTHER POEMS. 



DAVID MORGAN JONES. 






P H 1 L A D E I> P H I A : 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1882. 






Copyright, 1882, by J. B. LlPPlXCOTT & Co. 



DEDICATION. 



It is with heartfelt gratitude and pleasure I dedicate this 
little volume to my friend, 

HARRISON WRIGHT, Ph.D., 

At whose suggestion these ephemeral verses have been 
collected in book form, and by whose lenient criticism I 
am led to hope that if this first essay does not meet with 
approval, some subsequent effort may be more successful. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 









PAGE 


Lethe 




. 


7 


YORKTOWN .... 




. 


i6 


Memorial Ode 






21 


The Holy Child 




. 


26 


Sabbath Bells .... 




. 


29 


May's Memorial 




. 


31 


The Vanished Maiden 






34 


Her Eyes 






36 


When Snow seems Whitest . 




• 


37 


GARFIELD POEMS. 








Garfield .... 






39 


At the White House 




. 


42 


Heavenly Watchers at the \ 


Vhit 


E House . 


44 


God and the Sea 




. 


46 


The Second Martyr 






48 


At Rest .... 




. 


51 


Columbia to Arthur 






52 


Love's Wounds 




. 


53 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Moonlight Gold 

KlSSINCx 

Henry W, Longfellow . 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

Shelley 

Keats 

PoE AND His "Annabel Lee" 

Dreams 

The Lover's New Year . 
Henry Armitt Brown 

Song 

Jennie 

Buried Love's Epitaph . 

The Lowly Lovers of the Muse 

The Rich and the Suffering 

Love's Song 

Remenyi 

" Betty and the Baby" 

WiNTHROP W. KeTCHAM 

Flag and Fatherland 
Beautiful in Death 
My Lost Youth 



54 
57 
59 
63 
64 
66 
67 
68 
70 
71 

n 
75 
77 
78 
79 
80 
81 
82 

85 
z% 
90 
91 



LETHE. 

I CHOSE me a day that was death-like with languor, 
Unchanging and chimeless, and willing to die 

Unremembered, would bid me to cast the soul's anchor, 
And dream by a shore where the heart's shadows lie. 

And methought I had seen, in the dream of that day, 

A poet's sad face, and could hear him say : 

" I sing not of Lethe, the peace-giving river, 

Where amnestied souls sweet forgetfulness drink ; 

Whose fountains will rise out of Fable forever. 
And flow, like a song, and flood over the brink 

Where the living look down on the suffering dead, 

Till the calm of its tides o'er their spirits is shed. 

" I stand by a stream had its rise in the ruin 
Of the four golden rivers of Eden, long hid. 

By the side of the river their lost billows drew in. 
By the bank of the river their beauty undid. 

As they hurried down Eden, heavy-laden with flowers. 

Sad, fragrant farewells from its death-shaken bowers ! 

7 



8 LETHE. 

*'The Tree of Life fell not, nor faded those bowers, 
But its wierd waters buried the unwritten bliss 

Of a life that was sinless as Eden's own flowers, 
Of lips that were worthy a seraph's white kiss, — 

Swept over Love's history written in bloom, 

And left him the dim lore of death and the tomb ! 

'' It gathered its tides to the tune of the river 
Of Time, but below it its channels were laid ; 

And at last 'tis a sea that is feeding forever 

On the wrecks which the waves of that river have 
made. 

Then Lethe I name it, the wonderful sea 

That stretches from Eden to where the dead be ! 

*' Lost Atlantis lies in it, in Lethe, eluding 

The sapphire-wing'd Legends that sigh for its shores ; 

Yet oft on our joys we find pity intruding 

For the land that bequeathed us its golden Azores : 

What music in mid-sea then mingled with Death's! 

And the sea-winds, his couriers, how sweet were their 
breaths ! 

*' Not Atlantis alone, but her conquered dominions. 
The isles her Aladdin Lamp found and illumed ! 



LETHE. 9 

O'er her lands which lay westward dim Myth spread its 
pinions, 
And Lethe at length its possessions entombed. 
The learning of Egypt, the splendors of Hellas, 
Was Atlantis their leavening Light, Lethe? O tell us ! 

" In thy bosom lie treasures the Flood left unbroken, 
And secrets the Sphinx dared never to keep ; 

Dark yEons brood o'er thee that waft not a token 
Of lives and of loves like the sands of the deep. 

By the gateway of glory thy cold waters creep. 

And lives sink in Lethe as babes fall on sleep. 

" Thy listless tides reach far away into shadows. 
On the shore of Mythology break in dim dreams. 

Till the lands of the real do seem Eldorado's, 

And the regions of Myth glow with life's radiant 
beams. . 

Thy mists float the border-land lying between 

The giants of Fable and earth's living green. 

*' Sevenfold more secure, then, be Fairyland's bowers — 
The abodes of the gods and the Muses of old — 

Than battlements paced by the purple-plumed Hours, 
Than statues of Venus or vessels of gold ! 

Oblivion engulfs the high Babels of men, 

While the fays gaily trip over heather and glen. 



lo LETHE. 

''But the soul, looking off the grand heights of Tradi- 
tion, 

Feels an awe the vast Ocean can never inspire, 
When thou conjurest forth, like a mighty magician, 

The ghost of Old Rome in a glorious attire : 
But to vanish again while its stern features show, 
Like the face of King Lear, the sad havoc of woe. 



" And the songs which be sunk in thy silence, O Lethe ! 
The bards whose sweet breathings be mixed with thy 
breath, 
And the poets who verily craved thy nepenthe, — 
Oh ! the world thy waves found in the wake of fleet 
Death, 
The ruin Death leaves, for thy waters to wreak, — 
Oh ! the lips, after death, vainly longing to speak ! 



",I have come to thy Death-haunted shore unattended, 
And stand by the waves where my own songs shall 
sleep ; 

I look o'er thy waters, nor have yet repented 

My measures that move to the tune of thy deep, — 

That may touch not the soul of one man or one woman, 

Strike never a chord in the heart of the Human ! 



LETHE. II 

'' But I'll sing for the love of the song and the singing, 
For the sake of tlie solace that flows with the song, 

For the boding of death in its very beginning, 
For pity of it that it cannot live long ; 

For pity the song and the singer must part, — 

For pity they met, saith a voice in my heart. 

'' O Lethe, how sing to the Sea the great masters. 
Till like its own billows their grand anthems roll ! 

But what if they sang of thy wrecks and disasters. 
The ruins thou boldest of body and soul, 

The sweep of thy flood over living and dead. 

And them that live on after honor is fled ? 

" By thy lullabies soothed, some be deaf to thy dirges, 
Nor feel the damp breezes that blow from this shore; 

And a spell the spent spirit evermore urges 

Down here, while the halos 'round others implore 

'Their fair guardian angels to save them from thee. 

As the feet of a child are held back from the sea ! 

"Are there nymphs in thy kingdom, and mermaids 
and naiads. 

Who covet the lyres and the lutes of the young? 
And be they in league with the woodland's deft dryads, 

To shatter the harps on the willow-trees hung ? 



12 LETHE. 

Then, seeing wan singers, like lilies, a-dying 

In brooklets of song, fall to sobbing and sighing? 

*' Be they merry, thy pale nymphs in mockery wearing 
The gems that were meant for fond Memory's brow ? 

Is that laughter I hear for some mortal despairing 
To wrest back his pearls from their grim keeping now? 

Is that book, but a shadow of blue and gold, read 

By thy naiads to tickle the ears of the dead ? 

" Twin Shapes on thy shores, — be they lovers, departed 
The loves of this life on their sweet wedding eve? 

It cannot be, these so free and light-hearted ; 

The mists which surround them my eyesight deceive. 

Thy nymphs, they must be, in that faded trousseau, 

And they laugh as the owners laughed long, long ago. 

''Earth's millions are thine, and the mile-stones they 
counted, 
The footprints they made ! And so it shall be 
Till the stars the last time heaven's hill-tops have 
mounted, 
To light up the pathway to Death's house and thee ! 
O Lethe, thou lavest our beautiful Lands ; 
But they heed not thy whispers, they see not thy sands ! ' ' 



LETIIE. 13 

Thus spake the poet, but ere he had ended 
A voice out of Lethe fell soft on the ear, 

While with it weird music, and death-like, was blended, 
And he paused then to listen, but showed not a fear; 

The sound seemed familiar and friendly to him, 

In a spot that was lonely, a light that was dim : 

"I'm the spirit of sleep, which no dreams do encumber, 
Save the shadows of dreams even Death dare not cast ; 

All things that I touch sink down deeper in slumber 
Than the dust of the dead in the present or past ; 

But the pulses now stilled in these waters Lethean, 

Should they throb, what a tumult the billows would be 
in! 

" Here Silence, the singer sole deathless and solemn. 
Loud chants the long paean of Lethe o'er Pain ! 

The breezes that blow thro' these billows be breathless, 
And Echo here sighs for an answer in vain ! 

Power in pantomime, pomp in dumb show. 

Earth's pageants become where these still waters flow ! 

" But remember, O singer, the sorrows I cover, 
The shame and despair, with each merciful wave : 

How many a fair lass hither fled from her lover ! 
What secrets rest here would not stay in the grave ! 
2 



14 



LETHE. 



How kind is the veil I throw over the souls 
Who were scorned in the sunshine where Fame's river 
rolls ! 

*' No nymphs here, no mermaids, and never a naiad 
To laugh at the old or to envy the young. 

The Pole-star of mariners here is the Pleiad, 

And the vessels they sail in have never been sung. 

My harbor is Rest where the sailors all sleep 

In oblivion unbroken, eternal, and deep !" 

Then the poet said : '' Lethe, flow over my sorrow, 
Flow over the slips whicli my footsteps have made, 

Flow over my song that must die on the morrow, 
Flow over its flowers that must wither and fade; 

But leave me the loves which do sanctify life, 

And a soul that is stronger than sorrow or strife! 

'•' And Lethe, flow over the false and unreal, 

The dreams that be vain and the hopes that deceive ; 

But leave me henceforth a diviner ideal, 
A life worth the battle, a creed to believe. 

Flow over the pathway that opens to fame, 

Leave me love for mankind and an unsullied name." 



LETHE. 



15 



The poet has ceased, and my day-dream is over, 
While a wondrous fair river rolls up at my feet ; 

I have stood here before, but 'tis now I discover 
The music that breaks o'er these waters is sweet. 

This cannot be Lethe ! there's life in the billows ; 

A soul could not sleep with these waves for its pillows. 

Here be odors, with subtle wings, born of the roses. 
That pierce, as by arrows, the helmet of Sleep ! 

The heart that throbs most, on its bank best reposes, 
The soul that grows like it, its beauty will keep ; 

And the Sunshine, unsheathing its flaming sword, ever 

The way of life guards, by this on-rolling river ! 

Rolling on, driving Darkness and Evil before it. 
Till they leap into Lethe at last and be lost ; 

Rolling onward while rainbows of glory bend o'er it, 
And its spray o'er the lands, like a blessing, is tossed ; 

Rolling on, 'mid the songs of the multitudes thronging 

Its strand, to still the soul's sighing and longing ! 

'Tis the river of life, love, knowledge, and laughter. 
Of beauty and music and blossoming shores ! 

'Tis the River of Life, of the happy Hereafter, 
Flowing here, by the banks of our golden Azores, 

Past the Ultima Thule of human endeavor, 

Bidding glorious defiance to Lethe forever ! 

June, 1882. 



YORKTOWN. 

Lo ! the sun in a century's silence enshrouded 

Rearisen with radiance divine. 
Marching up out of night into glory unclouded, 
To the dawn with great hopes and grand destinies 

crowded, 
Toward the splendor of noon and the beauty of even ; 
But never to set again, dazzling in heaven 
With a light that the like of to see was not given 
The legions of Rome in their visions immortal. 

Or lovers that lived on the Rhine ! 
O Yorktown, be proud ! standing guard at the portal 
Whence was usher'd this glory divine ! 

O Yorktown, be proud ! keeping guard at the portal, 

Where the sun, rearisen, appears. 
That shone on the heroes who seem more than mortal, 
As they follow that sun thro' its crystalline portal, 
A wonderful army, the old Continentals, 
i6 



YORKTOWN. 



17 



With their giant-like tread and their quaint regimentals ; 
And, with hearts full of love for those grand Conti- 
nentals, 
Brave princes by blood and by nature, as brilliant 

In court as in war ; and their peers. 
Our princes of mountain and forest, the valiant, 
Undaunted, half-clad volunteers ! 

And Yorktown, be gallant, while guarding the portal 

Where the sun, rosy-red, reappears, 
That flash'd on proud dames and bright damsels im- 
mortal. 
For the sheen of their smiles as they pass thro' its 

portal — 
Pure rays of true hearts and fair faces as ever 
The arena, rose-red, of heroic endeavor 
Lit up : or drew darts from the wing'd god's quiver. 
Oh ! sacred those smiles to the kinsman and lover. 

And sweet to the lone cavaliers ! 
That like shadows of Paradise 'round their paths hover 
As they gaze down a vista of tears. 

Now Yorktown, rejoice, for this day-king in rising 

Has straiglUway come forth of the sea; 
And the vessels that follow fear never capsizing, 
With the spray of this glory their broadsides baptizing, 



1 8 YORKTOWN. 

And mann'd by bold crews that are crown'd with eter- 
nal 
Tiaras, who fought as if fresh from infernal 
Far lakes of fierce fire, yet with spirit supernal ; 

With a sea-king of hearts, of their own hearts' desir- 
ing, 
The model of navies to be ! 
O Yorktown, be jubilant ! aye, without tiring. 
For the sun that arose from the sea ! 



Oh ! the sun that had shone on the dreams that were 
shatter'd, 
On the dying all over the land. 
On bands of brave men that were beaten and scatter' d, 
On the pillar of hope in the South that was batter' d 
And broken in pieces ! But what was their future ? 
Though a navy rode up at this critical juncture. 
Were it not for the probe of a genius to puncture 
The head of that triumph, or heart of Cornwallis, 

With the fate of a world in his hand ! 
Behold the Great Washington ! who all in all is 
In this hour to that doom-threaten 'd land. 

O Genius of War ! soon outwitting Cornwallis, 
And smiting his soul with dismay ! 



YORKTOWN. 19 

Ah ! bitter the draught of that fit-chosen chalice, 
To be drain'd of the dregs by crestfallen Cornwallis, 
Who a lion had proved in his lair, when the onset 
Was swift as a torrent, but grand as the sunset — 
No grander than this sun had ever yet once set — 
That promised the British no hope on the morrow ; 

Presaging the siegers a day 
Which would heal with its balm the sore heart of 
sorrow. 
And give them fair Freedom for aye ! 



'' Forlorn hope" — the world's hope — the besieged now 
assailing ! 
Their hopes, the redoubts, are forlorn ! 
And who are the heroes against them prevailing? 
The leaders' names tell, who the parapets scaling ! 
Young Hamilton, hope of a nation's fond nursing, 
Deuxponts — "Chevalier" — turning laughter to curs- 
ing- 
Such the braves in an hour our fell fortunes reversing 
Eternal tiaras, too — myriads admiring — 

These soldiers unsullied adorn. 
O Yorktown, be jubilant ! aye, without tiring, 
For the day when young Freedom was born ! 



20 YORKTOWN. 

O Frenchman ! no freedom, returning, awaited ! 

How hot were the balls that ye hurl'd ! 
Ye that fell where this fabric of strength was created, 
Scarcely knew with what moment your mission was 

freighted ; 
But your lives were the gold of this temple's adorning. 
Too strong for destruction, too noble for scorning. 
That rose into being that beautiful morning. 

The Temple of Freedom, that never shall crumble. 

But will stand while endureth the world ! 
Ah ! had not the conquer'd King cause to be humble 

When those banners of peace were unfurl'd ? 
O Yorktown, be proud ! standing guard at the portal 

Whence is usher'd this glory divine ! 
O field of all fields ! that made valor immortal, * 
The birthday of Freedom is thine ! 

October 13, 1881. 



MEMORIAL ODE. 

Read before the G. A. R. of Wilkesbarre, at Music Hall, Tuesday 
Evening, May 30, 1882. 

The soldier's path, 'mid Hope's flushed flowers begin- 
ning, 
Ends here among the roses Love has strewn. 

But then what lay between was worth the winning, 
Tho' like Gehenna, groaned the gory way 
That led him to these tinted tents of May, 

And hence and upward to the fragrant camps of June — 

And higher still t' wards Nature's highest heaven. 
Where light and sound the perfect day do make. 

O happy slumberer ! to thee 'tis given 

To lie on Summer's heart and take thy rest. 
Whether, like thee, in snow-white garment dressed 

For sleep, or watching 'mid the flowers till thou awake ! 

How like the mother in her youthful beauty. 

She folds thee to her warm, sweet-smelling breast ! 
No longer thine to do a soldier's duty, 



2 2 MEMORIAL ODE. 

Helpless and happy here as any child, 
To dreamland fair by countless blooms beguiled, 
And all earth's sweets be thine without the weary quest ! 

But now do we, who have not yet divided 

The deep, dark waves that gave thee back thy youth. 

Look o'er the waters where thy spirit glided 
So like a dream unto this flowering shore 
Where merry voices ring forevermore, 

Like children's voices, like thine own in sooth ! 

And some, thy friends who strayed with thee in child- 
hood 
So oft these very burial grounds among. 

The golden meadows and the echoing wildwood. 
With step like that of youth fresh garlands bring, 
Bright as thine own hands wove in pleasant Spring, 

Till these old hearts of ours grow soft again and young. 

Now far from us as thee, the noise of battle ! 

Like babes upon a holiday at last 
War's visage dim we scan, the cannon's rattle 

Like them in wonder hear — so old is peace ! 

This is not dotage — 'tis the heart's release 
From the long bondage of the grim and gloomy Past ! 



MEMORIAL ODE. 23 

Why, veterans here there be, that carry flowers, 

Who'd weep with strange delight, if they might see 

In vast array the hosts that once were ours ! 
Hailing once more, in many a doubtful fight 
The boys that saved the day then sank from sight, 

They'd toss their hands and shout for joy hilariously. 

O Peace! what blessed boon is this you brought them 
That took the cruel sting of war away? 

What charms Lethean, these you kindly wrought them 
So well to heal the wounds that war had made? 
Oh ! Peace, these hearts, once Sorrow's, dost per- 
vade, 

What golden vistas down the Nation's larger day ! 

As May's white blossoms hide the hurts stern Winter 
Inflicted on the tempest-conquering trees. 

That, like a cavalcade of heroes, enter 

The rich realms where May was crowned Queen ; 
As earth's deep wounds are covered o'er with green. 

Your deathless deeds, O dead, and fadeless victories, 

A brightening wilderness of blooms and glories. 
Loom up between us and the wrecks of war ; 
And tho' we cherish still its touching stories, 



24 MEMORIAL ODE. 

Now, like romance, your sufferings almost seem 
The blessed memories of a painful dream ! 
Whose pain has given us Peace, as night the Morning 
Star ! 

Whose pangs have brought us joy, as night the golden 
morning : 

For not less brightly hath Aurora smiled, 
That, a"s the legend saith, for her adorning 

She stole full many a rosy child away ; 

Nor Peace less bright, we cannot find to-day. 
The flower of Chivalry unto her dawn beguiled ! 

Time hides the crimson of the cannonading, 
The imperial purple death did then display ! 

And war's red memories, faded now or fading, 
Have yielded to the golden crown of Peace. 
Let not her hopes, the while her powers increase, 

Like golden apples turn to ashes cold and gray ! 

But living soldiers, not the less we love you; 

Death yet denies you glory's tear-dewed wreath; 

Nor less ye love the Flag that soared above you, 
It firm refused to be your battle shroud ! — 
Of this, surviving heroes, we are proud. 

That Freedom's flowers blow fairer for your loving 
breath ! 



MEMORIAL ODE. 25 

Your voices, mingled with the battle's thunder, 

And feeble farewells of the dying brave. 
Your hearts, that heard their heart-strings break asun- 
der. 
Your hands, that clasped the hands that saved the 

day, 
Your hands, that brought back laurels from the fray, 
Are needed the rich fruits of conflict yet to save ! 

Then let the buried dead again be buried 

Full deep beneath the flowers of Love and Peace ! 

Not as in war, when funeral rites were hurried. 
But thoughtfully, and lovingly, and slow ; 
Ye have more time than in the long ago, 

To scatter flowers, less cause the tear-drop to release ! 

Spare not the sweetest rose, the tenderest blossom 
Fond Nature into being ever fanned ! 

For martial garb, she, 'round each hero's bosom 
Her *'coat of many colors" loves to fold, 
Helmeted with the daisy's sacred gold. 

To dull the darts that fly from Time's relentless hand ! 

Sleep well, beneath Columbia's starry skies ! 

Your fame with her's coequal shall increase, 
Ye soldier dead ! Oh ! may your sacrifice. 

To deeds as grand our souls bestir, in perilous peace. 
3 



THE HOLY CHILD. 

From lost Eden down, the Seasons Four 

Had dreamed of the Holy Child ; 
Spring caught His smile in the dream's sweet core, 
And in her heart hid -it forevermore ; 
And her face thenceforth a sweeter smile wore, 

And her spirit grew gentle and mild. 
Every tree she touched broke out in blossoms 

That bloomed with a tenderer grace ; 
And a myriad arbors bared their white bosoms, 

To make Him a resting-place ! 

From the Promise down, the Seasons Four 

Had dreamed of the Birth Divine ; 
And Summer found, in the dream's deep core, 
The Heart of her heart forevermore : 
And redder thenceforth the roses she wore. 

And richer the fruit of the vine ! 
Then, flushed with the Dream, round her purple throne 

Her gifts of gold up-piled ! 
26 



THE HOLY CHILD. 27 

The royal honor seemed hers alone, 
To herald the Holy Child ! 

Thro' long ages dim, the Seasons Four 

Had dreamed of His natal hour ; 
And Autumn saw, in her sad dream's core, 
The glorified look the young child wore, 
Tho' a dying heart in His bosom He bore. 
And in her heart hid it forevermore 

In fading leaf and flower. 
On flower and leaf a crimson glow 

Life out of Death foretold ! 
And she said, '^ If He come ere winter winds blow, 

I will weave Him a crown of gold." 

Down to His coming, the Seasons Four 

Had dwelt on the Birth Divine ; 
Winter heard His voice when the dream was o'er. 
And echoed its music forevermore. 
And whiter thenceforth seemed the raiment she wore, 

And she cried, '' The honor is mine : 
I see His bright star through the frosty air gleam. 

Bending o'er Him, feel His warm breath ; 
And deep in my bosom I treasure the dream. 

Who had been the herald of Death." 



28 THE HOLY CHILD. 

O heart of winter with rapture thrilled, 

Thy dream, the first, came true ! 
With whitened locks the Seers of eld 
The Blessed Babe in their arms had held : 
But the human heart 'gainst the dream rebelled, 

And the Lord of Glory slew ! 
Wise men of the East ! how your golden gifts glow 

In the light of Bethlehem's star ! 
As we carry bright gifts to our babes, thro' the snow, 

Is its radiance near or far? 

December 22, 1881. 



SABBATH BELLS. 

Sweet Sabbath chimes ! that change one sun in seven 

To sevenfold brighter beaming, — 
Six earthly lamps outshone by one of heaven, 
Alit of holy morn and holier even ! — 
Glad sounds, the week's harsh discourse all redeeming ! 
Blithe bells, whose hearts of heaven are sweetly 
dreaming. 

Seven heavens in one, one day in seven ! 

O hallowed chimes ! ye seem to fall from heaven, 

From belfries far above us, 
Builded of morning gold and gold of even •! 
From bells that turn to gold one day in seven. 
Beneath the strokes of angel bands that love us, — 
Our bells, they bear to belfries far above us. 

The bells of heaven one day in seven. 

Sad souls who deem those bells too high in heaven, 
Remember they are ours, — 

3* 29 



30 SABBATH BELLS. 

Our bells, the angels ring one day in seven, 
Your chimes, the boon a tender Heart hath given, 
Your bells, that chant within those golden towers ! 
And the sweet sounds, that fall like heavenly showers. 
Do hxmgyou to heaven one day in seven ! 

Blest chimes that give us all one day in seven ! 

For them the gift desire, 
Ye bring, seven days in seven, the songs of heaven. 
And your sweet echoes morning, noon, and even ! 
Then, tho' those bells be high, the sound mounts higher, 
And tho' those chimes seem far, heaven is nigher, 

And earth like heaven seven days in seven ! 

October 26, 1881. 



MAY'S MEMORIAL. 

So warm thy kiss and odorous sweet, 
So kindly comes thy quickening breath, 

May ! born of winter brave, 'tis meet 
Thou shouldst recall a soldier's death 

Sweet, with the odors of a hallowed fame, 
Or glory's lighter wreath. 

Mother of flowers ! forever young. 

Merry and maidenly and mild, 
Immaculate May ! whose praise is sung 

By winged choirs and undefiled, 
Thy sympathetic smiles made glad indeed 

The soldier's orphaned child. 

And soldier's widow, doomed to mourn 

In mid-May of her wedded youth. 
Among love's roses left forlorn, 

But for thy tenderness and ruth 
Her breast's keen wounds, methinks, thy balm would 
heal, — 
Already hath, in sooth. 

31 



32 MAY'S MEMORIAL. 

Rememb'rest yet, when reeking blades 
Smote thy white blossoms till they bled ? 

A sense of sadness since pervades 
Our souls when gazing on the red 

That wear henceforth for us a deeper hue 
In honor of our dead. 

Thrice-happy heroes ! whom, in throes 

Of lonely death and thrall of night, 
Thy zephyrs fanned, their eyelids closed ; 

Blest as thy blooms that, veiled from sight. 
The while their wealth of perfumes gathered wealth, 

Beneath the stars reposed ! 

May's loveliness, by times, in mist ! 

Kind mother ! this like grief appears. 
Oh ! when they fell, how little wist 

The erring brave of other years 
Our quick-forgiving love would equal thine, 

Thy kisses and thy tears ! 

When wintry doubts, dark force more dread 

Than war, beleaguered and annoyed 
Our heroes, haunted by their dead, 

It seemed to them in vain had died — 
As erst a host God's breathing angel slew; 

Thy birth these doubts destroyed. 



MAY'S MEMORIAL. 

They found, we trust, in blossoming 

A fairer May beyond the skies, 
Who strove till freedom's second Spring 

Fell soft between the flashing eyes. 
Such death turns Winter's frost-work into flowers, 

Whose green leaf never dies ! 

Few are thy flowers that are not frail, 
And none so fair they fear to fade ; 

But when the founts of Summer fail. 
The Paradise thy beauty made 

In mortal memory will greet them all 
In spotless robes arrayed. 

While thou, fond mother of the fair, 

Still bosomed in eternal Spring, 
Wilt breathe thy blessings on the air. 

And nurse new buds to blossoming. 
So Freedom beautifies her dead, but waits 

No braver following. 

May i8, 1881. 



33 



THE VANISHED MAIDEN. 

The gold in the sky was burning, 

As I walked one eve by the sea, 
And the lustre it shed was turning 

All things into gold but me ; 
For wrapped in a mantle of sorrow, 

I was proof 'gainst the beautiful change, 
And my soul was unable to borrow 

That glory so silent and strange. 



But soon, with a music enchanted. 

That rose from the shells on the shore, 
With a phantom of joy I was haunted, 

And I heard her soft whisper once more, 
The voice of my own vanished maiden. 

Buried deep in the caves of the sea. 
And my soul then sighed for her Eden, 

And struggled — with her to be free. 
34 



THE VANISHED MAIDEN. 

The music increased, and the billows 

Fell back into deep repose, 
With white tranquil foam for their pillows. 

When a form from the waters arose ; 
'Twas the form of my long-lost maiden, 

Buried deep in the caves of the sea. 
Whose soul had returned from her Eden 

To talk for one moment with me. 

Let grief from your bosom be banished. 

Be happy on earth for awhile, 
For soon the maid that has vanished 

Will welcome you there with a smile, 
Where the gold in the sky is burning, 

And whence we shall look on the waves. 
While the lustre that's shed is turning 

All things into gold but our graves. 

July 21, 1879. 



35 



HER EYES. 

Her eyes ! Are there not wondrous subtle shadows 

Far down them that of star-born spirits tell, 
Who, hastening from their shining Eldorados, 

Looked in nor ceased to look, they loved so well ? 
I sometimes think there never gleamed in star-land 

As lovely soul-lit rays as grace her eyes : 
Their hues ethereal borrowed from that far land 

Beyond the stars, where all sweet lights arise. 
There is a depth of meaning in their being 

So ravishing whene'er we gaze therein. 
And hence a heaven we see amid their seeing. 

Where pure white thoughts burn incense foi our sin, 
And strong celestial yearnings come and go 
With sorrow's dew upon their wings, for others' woe. 



1878. 



36 



WHEN SNOW SEEMS WHITEST. 

O WINTER snow ! dost seem the whitest, 

Beheld by wee and wondering eyes 
Of babes imagining thou mightest 

Or must have fallen from Paradise ! 

Their young souls, come from Heaven but lately. 
Where all is white and pure and fair. 

Oh ! does it not delight them greatly. 
To think thou too hast come from there ? 

Ah ! when the snow the whole air whitens, 

With what pure eyes they see it fall ; 
And white as Heaven the vision brightens. 

And God's white mantle covers all ! 

Oh ! perfect purity of childhood ! 

How close to God their spirits dwell ! 
Or if they perish in the wildwood, 

Or in warm homes they fare them well. 

4 37 



38 WHEN SNOW SEEMS WHITEST. 

For them is aye a steadfast token, 
Their Heavenly Father still is near, 

O happy spell ! how brief, when broken ! 
Dear days, long dead, grown doubly dear ! 

December, 1881. 



GARFIELD. 

O SORROW, thou hast seized upon the night 
That holds the dawn of that immortal day : 
Has risen radiant 'round the upward way 

Of Liberty, till now we fear its light — 

Its rosy rays we fear, lest they may fall 

Upon our prostrate Garfield, pale in death ; 
In dread suspense we wait its wakening breath. 

Lest it may bear him from us after all. 



Lost ! after all the flickering gleams of light 
Our loving eyes beheld thro' clouds of grief, 
And hope restored to us once more our Chief? 

O rosy rays ! how hateful to our sight, 

If he should die ! how darksome were the day, 
With all its glorious glowing like the East ! 
O Freedom ! how can we partake thy feast. 

If our beloved Garfield pass away ! 

39 



40 



GARFIELD. 



What ! shot to death there, in the very eve 
Of that great day would make a traitor true, 
And Freedom's very Capitol in view ! — - 

Our loving hearts the news would not believe, 

If so our unbelief might rescue him ; 

Our anxious hearts with beating hopes might break, 
If so he live again for Freedom's sake. 

Heaven send Thy light, the light of hope is dim. 

Kind God ! the news that cometh now is good ! 

Pour Thou Thy strength around his rallying heart. 

Thy healing balm upon the wounded part ; 
Oh ! may Thy quickening spirit o'er him brood, 
And bring again the rosy hue to him, 

And to the morn that is about to rise ; 

Dispel the darkness from these midnight skies. 
The dark that makes the dawn of hope so dim ! 

And give us Garfield, true to Thee and self. 

To the Republic true, and brave as truth ; 

Restore us him, who gave his life, from youth, 
To God and country, not to power and pelf. 
How like a splendid morn, his brief career ! 

Oh ! would the months were years — they were in 
sooth 

If we but count what he has done for truth — 
Brief months, that filled the Nation's foes with fear. 



GARFIELD. 41 

O grant in Thy great mercy this the prayer 
Unnumbered souls are lifting up to Thee : 
That he a full, unbroken term, may be 

Our President, and none beside him there. 

July 3, 1881. 



AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 

While friendship's eyes with grief are dim, 
And all the world is wet with tears, 
To whom a week seemed more like years, 
Still sweeter waters well for him 
And soothe his soul like heavenly dew. 

Love's sunshine beaming thro' them all ; 
Till lo ! not long the big drops fall — 
Heaven in her eyes ne'er hid from view — 
Ere hope's bright rainbow on her brow 
So like a tranquil sky appears, 
Behind it bars the bitter tears. 
The while a few sweet drops do flow. 



The heart's crushed flowers what incense make ! 
In words the wires and cable call, 
Whose silent showers, thro' death-like pall, 

The lingering lovers overtake 
42 



AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 43 

In that first meeting of the pair 

Since forth of bliss like Eden's sent, 
Yet not, thank God ! to banishment. 

For His kind presence still is there. 

Ah ! when disaster's bolt had burst, 

And horror seized the nation's skies. 
Behold, what peace in love's sweet eyes ! 

And faith unshaken from the first. 

July 13, 1881. 



HEAVENLY WATCHERS AT THE 
WHITE HOUSE. 

Fresh on that sick-room's dull and tainted air 
The spirit scents the fragrance of the skies, 
For lo ! God's angels look with loving eyes 

On the calm Christian hero struggling there 

In long and weary conflicts with despair 

And death ; but each new day an angel flies 
From the sad chamber where the sufferer lies, 

Heavenward this blessed bulletin to bear : 



'' Faith firm, hope high, and courage unabated. 

Both as to this life, and the life above. 
While thrice we watchers for the end have waited, 

Pitying the sanguine dreams of anxious love. 
Till at the last all human hope had fled ; 
Lo ! our kind Father thrice hath raised him from the 
dead." 
44 



HEAVENLY WATCHERS. 4^ 

Back comes the message o'er the troubled seas 

That lie twixt earth and Heaven: '^By mortal 

prayer, 
Not angel ministries or tender care 

Of Love, nor yet the healer's skill, tho' these 

Lessened and soothed his death-like agonies — 
The pleas of suppliant nations mingling there, 
Thro' them, fresh hope is theirs for sheer despair. 

Death kept at bay before the bended knees !" 

May these prayers still, as with one voice arise. 
Assailing mid-Heaven with their echoes sweet ; 

From these poor wounds men turn their steadfast eyes 
To His rent side. His wounded hands and feet ! 

So takes the human heart a tenderer tone 

For having harbored sorrows sadder than its own. 

September 2, 1881. 



GOD AND THE SEA. 

"And his weary eyes welcome the sight of the sea." — Blaine's Dispatch. 

From that death-haunted chamber they solemnly bore 
him, 
To die in their arms it might be ! 
But strong-winged angels flew seaward before him, 
To move the great heart of the deep to restore him. 
Rouse, nourish, and rest him, breathe thro' him and 
o'er him 
The blood-thrilling balm of the sea — 
The life-giving breath and the strength of the sea. 

Stern Science grew motherly, thoughtful, and tender 

As his own loving mother might be ! 
And day and night pondered how best she could render 
Assistance, so naught merely human would hinder 
The brave heart in that body so pallid and slender 
From sounding its thanks to the sea — 
From trilling its drum-beats of joy by the sea. 
46 



GOD AND THE SEA. 47 

The face of young Autumn was flushed as with fever, 
And crimson as Summer's might be ! 

And her touch was so scorchj^ig they scarce could be- 
lieve her 

Sweet Autumn to be ; yet she was no deceiver — 

Our burden of sorrow seemed greatly to grieve her, 
And she raved in that run to the sea \ 
But at sunset she smiled — the fair bride of the sea ! 

That day through fair Autumn's delusion he dallies 

With dreams of a blessing to be ! 
Though nature is drooping, the President rallies, 
And they run a rapider rate through the valleys, 
And the good engine glides down the hill-tops and 
sallies 

Forth of woodlands, fast nearing the sea, 
Till " his weary eyes welcome the sight of the sea." 

Yet smoothly and tenderly thither they bore him \ 

To die was not heaven's decree, 
For the swift-winged angels flew seaward before him. 
And stirred the great heart of the deep to restore him, 
Nurse, nourish, and rest him, breathe through him 
and o'er him 

The life-giving breath of the sea. 
And he gains ! by the grace of our God and His sea ! 

September 9, 1881. 



THE SECOND MARTYR. 

Hushed be thy moaning and sobbing, O sea ! 

Thine but the semblance of sorrow ! 
And thou light-hearted as ever will be 

On the dawning for us of a bitter to-morrow ! 
O joyous sea ! O bitter sorrow ! 

Ye winds apparelled in midnight pall, 

How feebly ye voice his death, 
And harrow our hearts with the scenes you recall, 

When he felt your buoyant breath ! 
O merry winds ! O midnight pall ! 

O winds ! and O sea ! how sad to think 

That mortally wounded man 
Still cheerfully quaffed your breeze on the brink 

Where death's chill river ran, 
And spoke in your praise, poor, patient man ! 
48 



THE SECOND MARTYR. 

O Elberon bells ! ye pierce the soul — 
He heard )^ou with hope in his heart ; 

The hour for prayer he heard you toll, 
And ye caused his tears to start. 

O hopeful heart ! O Elberon bells ! 



Spirit of prayer ! not in vain o'er the deep 
Of our sorrow thou brooded and breathed 

Lo ! now we wonder, while yet we weep, 
At the blessings the battle bequeathed ! 

We weep and wonder, we wonder and weep. 



No tears are shed for hiin in the skies, 
" Our loss," they know, " is his gain :" 

Yet moist must have been even angel eyes 
To witness his wasting pain — 

But no tears are shed for him now in the skies. 



It is for the human heart to mourn, 
For human eyes to weep. 

And aye for man of woman born 
To suffer and then to sleep — 

It is for human eyes to weep. 
5 



49 



50 THE SECOND MARTYR. 

O human hearts the world around ! 

Stay not this torrent of tears ! 
The love ye sow in his grave's holy ground 

Will blossom, for countless years, 
In human hearts the world around. 

By the desolate shore of this sea of sorrow, 
Trembling and mute they stand, 

Who pray for the speed of a better morrow 
With their own in a happier land, 

Where hope cannot die by the hand of sorrow. 

A new-made grave, and a world bowed down, 

The while two martyrs meet 
In the City of God ! Behold the crown 

They have laid at a people's feet ! 
And men are moved when such martyrs meet. 

Oh ! his was indeed a martyr's doom ! 

Thank God for the martyr's crown ! 
A cruel death and an early tomb. 

And unimagined renown ! 
God be praised for the martyr's crown ! 

September 23, i88i. 



AT REST. 

Beneath that grand triumphal arch the night 
O'erlaid with fading stars in lieu of flowers, 
Fit tokens of this fleeting life of ours, 

A warrior passed, so altered to the sight. 

Men said had won a world in valiant fight ; 

When a voice answered from the King's high towers 
Two worlds hath won, the wreck of Eden's bowers, 

And the new Eden death can never smite. 

Tall archways, eloquent with flowers, arise ; 

Triumphal music beats his anguished breast. 

Then breathes a requiem caught from sacred choirs 
Kind eyes look out, like stars, from sorrow's skies, 

And pour their love-light 'round his place of rest. 

Sweet starlight left of Eden's lingering fires ! 

September 28, 1881. 



SI 



COLUMBIA TO ARTHUR. 

Art not successor unto one whom now 

All Time declares immortal ? Late was seen, 
Where thou hast come with faith-inspiring mien, 
The only man upon whose dying brow 
The world its crown of love did e'er bestow. 
Remembering, then, what he to me hath been 
And aye will be — the people's sight how keen, 
Their sense of right so quickened by their woe, 
Take thou this mantle, consecrate with tears. 
And hallowed be the heart's blood of the dear 
And deathless dead men mourn as for their own. 
And wear it, not in sight of fleeting years. 
Nor of this age alone, but in the clear 
White light of Freedom's future and Jehovah's 
throne ! 

October 6, 1881. 



52 



LOVE'S WOUNDS. 

Life the first born of Eden's bowers, Death last. 

And love that came between — mysterious Three ! 

O Life and Death, at last on which of ye 
Shall blame of Love's unkindest hurts be cast? 
All healed then, and every sorrow passed, 

Whose pitying hand, whose balsam-dropping tree 

Left for those wounds and all that misery 
The sweetest cordial ? Death's the iconoclast ? 
Oh ! Life, I fear, Love at the last will say 

That thou, not Death, didst him severely smite. 
And tell how, when he faint and bleeding lay 

By Time's roadside. Death softened at the sight. 

And decently enwrapping them in white, 
Took all the soreness from his wounds away. 

February 22, 1882. 



53 



MOONLIGHT GOLD. 

Oh ! who would give the daylight's gold and silver, 
And sunny smiles their shining always brings, 

For all the gold and gold dust of the delver. 
The gloss and gilt of sublunary things ? 

And yet this moonlight gold, and nights like this is, 
Will rob me of the riches of the morn ; 

For bathing in these glittering tides of blisses, 
I learn to laugh the tardy day to scorn. 

Now white-winged Sleep has wandered off to Star-land, 
Yet left behind her most bewitching dreams ; 

I dream them o'er, then follow to that far land. 
When on my sight a richer glory streams. 

The boundless moonlight, like the moonlit ocean. 
The stars, like shining shells, upon its beach, 

Tossed, 'mid the golden waters' silent motion. 
White clouds, for foam, as far as eye can reach ! 
54 



MOONLIGHT GOLD. ^t 

The moon above it, like the mental vision 
Old sailors have of youth's delightful land, 

The salt sea loudly laughing in derision 

When in their dreams they strike its golden strand. 

While we, glad sailors, in a lighter vessel. 
Flushed fancy launches on this friendlier sea, 

Between her mountains see the castle nestle 

Where we, the Queen's own guests, to-night will be. 

We sailors— I am one, and she the other— 

An incantation memory has arrayed ; 
Ah ! how we sail and soar again together. 

Of moonlight shipwreck not the least afraid ! 



Seems now the moon a large and earth-like island, 
Whose*heights resemble hills we used to climb; 

We land, and in the very heart of Joy-land, 
Hear the lost voices of love's vanished time. 



How oft man's truant spirit has disported 
Amid the pearly breakers of that sea ; 

Some hour supreme, transfigured and transported, 
Beheld a heavenlier glory yet to be ! 



s^ 



MOONLIGHT GOLD. 

Worth more than summer spends of shiny silver 
And sunny gold for honey and for wine, 

Is such a night ! O thou industrious delver ! 

Earth's gold is dross, heaven's ingots are divine ! 

August 12, 1881. 



KISSING. 

If kisses perished with the kissing, 

Nor kept our love alive, 
What honied sweets well worth possessing 

The heart would fail to hive ! 
How many links in life were missing 

That, as it is, survive ! 
If kisses perished with the kissing, 

Nor kept our love alive. 



If kisses shook our faith in kissing, 

Nor did that faith revive. 
What mighty stakes were left to guessing 

With men about to wive ! 
To stop Love's dream from effervescing, 

Could woman's wit contrive? 
If kisses shook our faith in kissing. 

Nor did that faith revive. 

57 



58 KISSING. 

If kisses out of Love's lips leaping 

Be lost ill sorrow's tide, 
The bliss that lovers feel in weeping 

In memory will abide ; 
The grief the kiss has in its keeping 

Down Lethe's waves shall glide, 
If kisses out of Love's lips leaping 

Be lost in sorrow's tide. 

May, 1882. 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

What birds, the bards of air, in singing say, 
Whisper the roses, and his ruddy Muse, 

When poets-born behold the break of day, 
Music, like manna, mingles with the dews. 

Exhaling, as the measures grow in might, 
This early fragrance from the fields of song ; 

How have we quaffed its lyrical delight, 
His fancy's goodly company among ! 

How reddened all the East of our desire. 

With song-beams from this singer's glowing breast ! 

A grateful age will greet whose fadeless fire 
In gleams of gold athwart its fadeless West. 

The wilds of nature, when his music came. 
Hailed in its sheen their mysteries unveiled ; 

While woods and waters, and their hosts, by name, 
And all the winds, its shaping spirit hailed. 

59 



6o HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

It lures some peeping glory from a star^ 
Shows deeper pathos in a pining flower, 

And, like a leaven of all sweet sounds there are, 
Imbues with rapture many a lonely hour. 

Poems pure as the dreams of Paradise 

Fair Innocence finds lingering in her heart. 

The sun's white hands that bathe her waking eyes, 
The gifts they bring, the color they impart ! 

Whose death-defying harmony inspires 

A listener's throb of triumph in one's breast — 

And imagery refulgent as the fires 

The poet-sun transfigures in the West. 

As when of old had vanished all the dews. 
The manna and its memory yet remained ; 

The first fresh flush of fancy loth to lose. 

What treasures hath this faithful singer gained ! 

What treasures on his fellows hath bestowed ! 

And not the lays alone for which we yearned. 
But when the suns were set that on them glowed, 

The strength imparted and the lessons learned. 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 6i 

Filled with a melody, the Golden Rule 
Is waking in the world, beside his own ; 

He breathes more beauty on the beautiful, 
Or leaves new loveliness where it had flown. 



His tender songs stir pity's fount of tears, 

Grief's bursting drops of balm break out between, 

As sunshine in an April shower appears. 
To turn the wastes of winter into green. 

A guide by journeyings heav'nward glorified ! 

Pointing to cold and sullen steeps, that freeze 
Ambition's breath, leads, down the mountain-side. 

Where summer strives for Summer's purple ease. 

Held by her sun-browned hand, and not a dream, 
A golden ladder leans against the sky. 

And joins two worlds which very distant seem 
Until the bright ascent our spirits try. 

Poesy radiant in the twilight dim, 

That on the longest life comes unawares, 

At night will give good angels charge of him 
Whose earthly harp so much resembles theirs. 
6 



62 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

But oh ! while yet the hues of eve remain, 
Silence may sepulchre some matchless ode ; 

The fragment of a psalm, one sweet refrain 
If heard, her heart with joy were overflowed. 

Ultima Thule his moist eyes have descried, 

Its quiet voices echo to his quest — 
Sad sounds, like farewells, in his last songs tide 

Soft to her saddened soul the poet's sigh for rest. 

February 14, 1881. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

O Sonnet, like a bower, in beauty bend — 

The outgrowth of warm hearts — above his tomb. 
Who touched thy branches with sunlight and bloom ! 

Hush ! If we were not sure he was our friend 

And thine, we could not on our hearts depend. 
Ere yet the gold has streaked the sudden gloom 
And he is ours again, to crave some room 

Of thee, with them their love to him do send. 

The tuneful breath of princely spirits kind. 
Mingling with sweeter voices, stir thy boughs, 
Till beckons Death more friendly from his house, 

And they do feel so lone he left behind ! 

But some, tho' old, bring cheer, and one tho' blind ! 
And one has joined him, thou couldst not arouse. 

May, 1882. 



63 



SHELLEY. 

No saintliness illumined his sweet lips, 

And mouth so musical were surely sweet — 
But many a saint shall pass to his eclipse 

Ere fade the heaven which shines at Shelley's feet, 
Wrapped in the dawn-light of a deathless day, 

While on his brow there beams the morning star ! 
How kind some storm had swept his heaven away, 

And left the heaven where God and angels are ! 
Or, kinder, if the dawn had grown to day, 

And on his brow there shone the evening star ! 
And so perchance had passed that heaven away 

Which hid the heaven where God and angels are. 

Heaven he traversed far in chariot frail, 
But met no seraphs in his shining path ; 

And yet his yearning spirit heard the wail 

Wrung from the earth beneath her tyrant's wrath. 

O fairy car! O ** rainbow-winged steeds !" 
How near ye bore him to the realms of bliss, 
64 



SHELLE V. 65 

And thence how far ! sad soul ! is he who feeds 

On dreams that bring no better world than this ! 
" O rainbow-winged steeds !" O fairy car ! 

In what poor stead ye stood him 'mid the storm 
That smote his shallop and his soul ! Ye are 

Too frail to bear a dead man's shadowy form ! 
Too fair to stem the awful gulf of death, 

Or mount beyond the heaven of man's own making. 
Yet sweet his voice ! and musical his breath ! 

And for his song there can be no forsaking ! 

November 17, 1881. 



KEATS. 

His songs arise, like nymphs, from music's tide. 
Dripping with sweetness and with gems adorned, 

And down its ebbing waves in beauty glide, 

Tho' them some envious rough wind coldly scorned. 

His spirit seemed like a lone, lovely Fay, 

Lured by celestial sounds from joy's domain ; 

But oh ! too soon they bore his harp away — 
The angels moved to pity for his pain. 

While broken rainbows, blending with the gloom. 
Dissolved in dreams above and death beneath. 

And flowers of music, in immortal bloom. 

Plucked from his harp-strings formed his funeral 
wreath. 

July 5, 1880. 



66 



POE AND HIS ^^ANNABEL LEE." 

While thou, true poet, didst her love embalm 

In the sweet spices of enduring song, 
Brought from the Araby of Love's bright realm. 

Where Poesy's pure odors thrill and throng — 
Brought thence by thee united with the Muse, 

Instead thy Heav'n-enveloped vanished bride — 
Lost plighted bliss thou couldst not wholly lose^ 

So like it hers who loved, but never died ! 

To him, true maiden, did thy love light dawning 

Violet-sweet appear — a radiant day 
Whose night refused to blossom into morning, 

And took the soul from all his song away. 
But when thou cam'st again to him, arrayed 

In Memory's robes as for thy bridal day, 
Thy love-light its immortal hues displayed, 

And left his soul embalmed in song for aye ! 

September 2, 1880. 

67 



DREAMS. 

The dreams of day do end in night, 

The dreams of night in morn ! 
The web we weave of sense and sight, 

May yet be doomed to scorn ; 
But of the heart of life and light. 

The hues of sleep were born. 
We toil till dusk, at dark do weep, 
Our joys chained down in night's strong keep ; 
Then lose ourselves in sweet, sweet sleep, 

To find our woes in chains at morn. 



The dreams of morn do fade ere noon, 
The dreams of noon ere night ! 

We bless the sun, we praise the moon. 
Till both be out of sight. 

We say our night-dreams die too soon. 
Our day-dreams are too light ! 
68 



DREAMS. 69 

We wake to toil and smile at eve, 
Night thralls the things that made us grieve ; 
But ah ! tho' bright the dreams we weave, 
'Tis joy is thrall with wane of night ! 

Then sad we greet thro' mists of morn 

The world of sense and sight. 
And chafed of hope would laugh to scorn 

The hues of sleep and night, 
Till lo ! we learn of these were born 

Tlie soul of life and light ! 
Scorn not thy dreams, O heart of mine, 
For bright or dark do thro' them shine 
Stray gleams of realms may yet be thine. 

Ere death drown all thy dreams in night ! 

January 12, 1882. 



THE LOVER'S NEW YEAR. 

Never, New Year ! by thy charms and enchantments, 

Canst thou sunder my old love from me ; 
Like an angel of mercy behind life's entrenchments, 

Wherever a sorrow may be, 
To cheer, as at first, when the sweet " yes" fell fainting 

From a mouth that was sweeter than May ! 
New Year ! not the visions of bliss thou art painting 

Can spirit my true Love away ! 

'Tis a lost year that brought the sweet fairy before me. 

When the dew-drops lay light on the flowers ; 
But I see in the soft rays of eyes bending o'er me. 

The starlight that brightened those hours ; 
In the kiss of her modest mouth, live the May over. 

Of a year the most precious to me — 
Ah ! dearer the old year that made me a lover, 

Than ever a New Year can be ! 

December, 1881. 
70 



HENRY ARMITT BROWN. 



When one like Henry Armitt Brown 
Must die, his life so young and fair 

Bright with the blossoms of renown, 
Hope itself may well despair. 



And pallid Death will seem to some 
Calamity more dark and dread : 

A blacker night hang o'er the tomb, 
For the bright spirit* that has fled. 

To others, with Faith's steadfast eye, 
That has Grief's soothing sway obeyed, 

Heav'n's grand and glowing canopy 
Caps the bright vault where he is laid. 

And thus the burning stars of night 
Become inscriptions o'er his grave. 

And show us whither tends his flight — 
The pure in heart and truly brave. 



7 2 HENR V A R MITT BR O WN. 

And nightly, thro' the coming years, 
Will tell of light and beauty lost — 

Nay, lifted, 'mid a world in tears, 
To realms a world of tears hath cost. 

September 17, 1878. 



SONG. 

If never you had blamed, Love, 

Nor quenched the spark divine, 
I should not be ashamed, Love, 

To let my talents shine : 
Star-like my heart had flamed, Love, 

From out the heaven of thine. 
If never you had blamed. Love, 

Nor quenched the spark divine. 



If you could see my heart. Love, 

Or feel its flame of fire. 
That burns with love of Art, Love, 

As well as Love's desire, 
So star-like from the start. Love, 

E'en yet it would aspire. 
If you could see my heart, Love, 

Or feel its flame of fire. 

7 73 



74 



SONG. 

If once my talents shone, Love, 

And you your love let shine, 
Life would not be so lone, Love, 

And Love would be divine; 
My light should be your own. Love, 

My love resemble thine. 
If once my talents shone. Love, 

And you your love let shine. 



May, 1882. 



JENNIE. 

Tho' not another friend had I, 
I would not heave an envious sigh 

If still beloved by Jennie ! 
For, hand in hand and heart with heart, 
Till strength from heart and hand depart, 

We'd cull life's blossoms many. 

And while we plucked those roses tender 
That do such modest hopes engender, 

If treated ill of any. 
We'd comfort each the other so. 
Our love and joy should mutual flow — 

Ah ! would we not, my Jennie? 

When Youth's fair tree has lost its blossoms, 
And hope has fled our chilling bosoms. 

No longer loved of any. 
We'll not repine o'er vanished sweets. 
Long left in pleasure's dim retreats, 

But still be cheerful, Jennie. 

75 



76 JENNIE. 

And witli the lute of love, subdued 
By thought of many a perished good 

And faded friendship, Jennie, 
We'll tune our hearts to sing of Heaven, 
Where grief's forgot, nor pain is given, 

And Death comes not to any. 

1865. 



BURIED LOVE'S EPITAPH. 

Oh ! Earth, my flower thou foldest to thy breast ! 

Still sweet the rose, whence so much sweetness fled ? 
Since of her grace thou, too, art dispossessed. 

Her spotless name its fragrance here shall shed. 

Kind words, warm as Love's heart, Love's living breath. 
In marble cold and white ! A subtle flame. 
Within whose charmed circle one dear name 

Defieth the devouring jaws of Death ! 

Not heeding what the night wind muttereth, 
Smiling thro' storm and sunshine just the same, 
In this lone shelter, more secure than fame. 

Content with what surviving Love's heart saith. 

The marble's time -swept snow may drift away, 
Or mingle with the dust that sleeps below; 
But in its stead sweet flowers shall rise, and so 

Suggest the fragrance of her name, decay 

Can never touch, and when the last flower dies. 
Heaven will reveal Love's name. Love's voice. 

Love's eyes ! 
February 2, 1882. 

7* 77 



THE LOWLY LOVERS OF THE MUSE. 

O Poesy, loved, honored, and adored 

By crowned heads of one long bardic line, — 

How often, like an angel of the Lord, 

To beggared souls thou bringest gifts divine. 
For fainting souls outpourest warming wine. 

Who never feasted at thy banquet board. 

Whose lives were one long fast, with fate's accord. 
Sweet spirit, but for that generous heart of thine ! 

When books, that hide the music of thy heart, 
Blaze like the gold of morn we cannot reach, 
Or if we have them, like that morning gold. 
Borne from us by the daytime far apart, 
We hear thy silent, most melodious speech. 
With thine ownself unseen communion hold ! 

October, 1881. 



78 



THE RICH AND THE SUFFERING. 

Has she, indeed, red rose so fresh and fair, 

Journeyed far up the valley of the night 
Unto these purpling hills of morn ? Is there 

No faintness in thy heart and on thy sight ? 
Is't fear, still lingering, makes thee tremble so; 

This flush, a vaporish fever in thy blood ? 
Nay, nay, it was the breeze. Why — do you know 

I feel as bright as any new-blown bud. 

Yet couldst thou tell what thou hast seen and heard ; 

What grim and ghastly shapes beset thy way, 
What moanings in the dark, no pity stirred, 

What voices praying for the dawn of day ! 
I fear the joy thy greeting now bestows 
Would turn to pain, though passing fair thou be, rich 
rose ! 

June 13, 1881. 

79 



LOVE'S SONG. 

I FEEL no need of thee, fair Spring, 

To quicken my delights ; 
Thy sunshine she to me will bring 

I wooed, o' winter nights. 

I hear all sorts of singing birds 

In her melodious voice ; 
Thy music ripples thro' her words, 

Who is my bosom's choice. 

Thy odors sweet be in her breath. 
Thy morning in her eyes ! 

And after summer — after death — 
We'll winter in the skies ! 



April, 1882. 



80 



REMENYI. 

Radiant thy bow ! athwart that floating heaven 
Thy soul up-buildeth 'round the violin, 
Of sounds so pure an angel's dreanas therein 

Might drift, like snowy clouds thro' purpling even, 

With no stain save thy heart- hued strains had given, 
Rainbow of promise, thine hath ever been ; 
No deluging, with music, of earth's din. 

Till beauty's veil Remenyi's hand hath riven ! 

A strain so soft ! a spirit's sigh might seem — 
So sad betimes, and unimagined sweet ! 
The nightingale would cease her song to hear. 
And think she heard her own voice in a dream. 
So blithe the sound ! would make an echo meet 
For Love's call in the springtime of the year. 

January i8, 1882. 



8i 



''BETTY AND THE BABY." 

When sorrow, like a frenzy, swept 

Thro' countless peaceful bosoms, 
And love fell prone and hopeless wept 

'Mid summer's drooping blossoms, 
How drear that guard the soldier kept 

Of him who spread this anguish ! 
Tho' justice had not died, nor slept, 

And vengeance did but languish, 
Perchance that frenzy turned his head, 

And overpowered, it may be. 
The heart that loved, the hand that fed 

Poor Betty and the Baby. 



He thought it hard, who fought so well 
To save the land from ruin, 

That he must daily guard his cell 
Who had been Hope's undoing, 
82 



BETTY AND THE BABY. 83 

Whose hated face behind the bars 

Had dimmed the sunshine's brightness, 
And cast a gloom about the stars, 

And blanched Love's cheek to whiteness ! 
This bitter thought then turned his head 

And overpowered, it may be, 
The heart that loved, the hand that fed 

Poor Betty and the Baby. 

And could it be he had forgot 

His babe, its mother Betty? 
A fatlier's love ! ah ! did it not 

Incline his soul to pity? 
Yes, thinking of his own, he felt 

For them, the assassin wounded ; 
And while his heart with love might melt, 

Its fury was unbounded ; 
Thus, armed to shoot, it turned his head 

And overpowered, it may be, 
The heart that loved, the hand that fed 

Poor Betty and the Baby. 

He loved the President because 

He, too, had been a soldier : 
With loves like these, what were the laws? 

Then, musket to the shoulder, 



84 BETTY AND THE BABY. 

Fast sped the ball that proved so true 

Where least he had intended ; 
While Guiteau grinned, 'mid much ado, 

His own bright dreams were ended ! 
For there, between him and the bars, — 

He fancied so, it may be, — 
With their white faces toward the stars, 

Stood Betty and the Baby. 



WINTHROP W. KETCHAM. 

Ill-mated, thou of warm and genial soul, 

With cold and callous Death didst seem to be ; 
He came, but did not linger long, yet stole 

Away thy heart, nigh unawares to thee ; 
And, as in recompense for what he took. 

To soothe thy friends, had left the life bloom there 
Upon thy brow, and such a living look. 

Relenting then, we said that Death was fair, 
And deemed him but a friendly guide to lead 

Thee, venerable traveller, on thy way. 
Without the need of staff or scrip or steed. 

Upward thro' shining worlds to endless day. 



Dear as thou wert to every heart, 'twere sweet 
To think thee here 'mid this memorial scene, 

Even now these sorrow-clouded eyes to greet, 
With wonted smile behold the love they mean ; 
8 ' 85 



Se WIN7HR0P W. K ETC HAM. 

But that we fear illusions that entice 

The sense and do not satisfy the mind, 
And so we speed thee on to Paradise 

And peace, and cling to what thou'st left behind : 
The noble record of thy heart and hand, 

Wherein augiit low or mean no man can trace ; 
Good deeds that long shall live in all the land, 

When men have ceased to know thy resting-place ; 
The memory of thy smiles and friendly grasp, 

And words of import deep and honest cheer, 
Thy likeness in our heart's soft case we clasp. 

As with a golden clasp and hold so dear. 



Imbued with love immortal for the right, 

Thy course was notable, deserving fame. 
And as each shining ray is no less bright 

Than the clear orb from whence it sparkling came, 
So all thou didst was, like thee, just and good, — 

The image of thy own peculiar powers. 
Thou wert not perfect ; if thou wert, we could 

Not love thee as we did, nor call thee ours ; 
Thy public life was grand, if truth is grand, 

And splendor still invests a people's praise ; 
Thy home was dear to thee as Holy Land 

E'er was to Christian knight in ancient days. 



WINTHROP W. KETCH AM. 87 

Sweet as the memory of a precious gift 

From one departed whom the heart holds dear, 
Thy unforgotten words that still uplift 

The struggling student in his lonely sphere ; 
His name upon the archway of the world 

He seeks to carve, makes thy high creed his own, 
And learns, where freedom's emblem is unfurled, 

A man may rise to greatness by his worth alone. 



F,.LAG AND FATHERLAND. 

Brave Flag ! like some grand veteran now, 

With starry emblems gay ! 
Let every freeman bare his brow 

And count thy scars to-day, 
Until the stars shine out and throw 

A still diviner ray. 

Upon thy star-gemmed breast how oft 

The wounded found repose, 
And dreaming of thy flights aloft. 

To life again arose ! 
While o'er the dead thy beams fell soft, 

But flashed upon thy foes. 

Thy azure fields, — how like the soul 
No bounds of space confine ! — 

When war's red clouds across them roll. 
With crimson beauty shine ; 

When merrily the peace-bells toll. 
What skies so clear as thine ! 



FLAG AND FATHERLAND. 

Thou art the flag of all the world, 

Tho' many banners be, 
For lo ! arose with thee unfurled 

The dawn of liberty ; 
Not all the storms that hate hath hurled 

Could hide its light from thee ! 

Oh ! we well love our Fatherland, 

And green its memory still ; 
On its far heights in dreams we stand. 

And drink again our fill 
Of joy's red wine, while fancy's wand 

Reveals each vale and hill. 

But, waving in thy heaven of blue, 

Its. future flag we see. 
When man to man is kind and true. 

And truth herself is free ! 
And all the bliss Columbia knew 

Our Fatherland's shall be ! 

O Freedom's land ! and Fatherland ! 

Beloved lands ye be ! 
Great God and just ! stretch forth thy hand 

And set the fettered free : 
So Fatherland made Freedom's land 

We yet may live to see. 
June 15, 1881. 



89 



BEAUTIFUL IN DEATH. 

I KISS her cold lips ; yet the blooms on her cheek, 

It behooves me to listen the language they speak ; 

Faint-red hues from the heart of a rose that arise, 

To dally with death till the last blossom dies. 

Nay, 'tis death's truce with beauty to last for an hour; 

While his lily shows white, fares it well with my flower. 

I look on the lily and question the rose : 

Is this all, — silent dust, and a rayless repose? 

Oh ! the rose in my dead darling's cheek, how it pleads 
With my heart to be happy, my heart that still bleeds ! 
'Tis the sweet, sudden sign on her pallid face set. 
That her spirit's true Love and her spirit have met ; 
While the hues of his lily my sorrow assure, 
Death's truce is eternal with souls that are pure. 

April lo, 1881. 



90 



MY LOST YOUTH. 

A VOICE I hear o'er memory's misty mountains, 
Calls kindly to my soul this Sabbath day, 

When suddenly my eyes are flowing fountains 
Where Psyche seeks to wash her stains away. 

A light bursts on me from a vanished morning 
Wherein no discord jarred the sense or sight ; 

When robes vain Psyche donned, for her adorning. 
Take on the solemn hues of death and night. 

A breath I feel, — a long-departed presence. 

Whose garment's hem to touch is all my prayer, — 

When Psyche sickens to her very essence. 
And for an hour is threatened with despair. 

Sweet voice ! that calls to me o'er memory's mountains. 
Thou wert my own when youth this forehead crowned, 

Ere yet these eyes were sorrow's flowing fountains. 
And I had trodden life's forbidden ground. 

91 



92 MV LOST YOUTH. 

Oh ! golden Light ! Oh ! Presence long-departed, 
The morn is mine ! my former self is here ! 

But what I am has made me broken-hearted, 
When what I was so vivid will appear. 

But hark ! for this a kindlier voice is calling. 
Cleaving the clouds which overhang the soul, 

A brighter sunshine 'round about me falling, 
While tears of joy adown my cheeks do roll. 

A radiant Presence, fresh from Joy's dominions, 
A brighter than my lost Atlantis brings, — 

The angel Hope ! whose heaven-anointed pinions 
Drop new-born light on Psyche's drooping wings. 

June, 1882. 



THE END. 



